izzical became ironic. It would afford the police another little,
bewildering reminder of the Gray Seal, and give Carruthers, good old
Carruthers of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, so innocently ignorant that the
Gray Seal was his old college pal, yet the one editor of them all who
was not forever barking and yelping at the Gray Seal's heels, a chance
to vindicate himself a little, too! Jimmie Dale moistened the adhesive
side of the gray seal, and, still mindful of tell-tale finger prints,
laid it with the tweezers on the flap of the envelope, and pressed it
firmly into place with his elbow.

And then, suddenly, every faculty instantly on the alert, he snatched up
the envelope from the desk, and listened. Was it imagination, a trick
of nerves, or--no, there it was again!--a footfall on the gravel walk at
the front of the house. The sound became louder, clearer--two footfalls
instead of one. It was Stangeist, and somebody was with him.

In an instant Jimmie Dale was across the room and kneeling again before
the safe. His fingers were flying now. The envelope shot back into the
pigeonhole from which he had taken it--the inner door of the safe closed
silently and swiftly.

A dry chuckle came from Jimmie Dale's lips. It was just like fiction,
just precisely time enough to have accomplished what he had come for
before he was interrupted, not a second more or less, the villain foiled
at the psychological moment! The key was rattling in the front door
now--they were in the hall--he could hear Stangeist's voice--there came
a dull glow from the hallway, following the click of an electric-light
switch. The outer door of the safe swung shut, the bolts slid into
place, the dial whirled under Jimmie Dale's fingers. It was only a
step to the portieres, the open window--and escape. He straightened up,
stepped back, the portieres closed behind him--and the chuckle died on
Jimmie Dale's lips.

He was trapped--caught without so much as a corner in which to turn!
Stangeist was even then coming into the room--and OUTSIDE, darkly
outlined, two forms stood just beneath the window. Instinctively, quick
as a flash, Jimmie Dale crouched below the sill. Who were they? What did
it mean? Questions swept in swift sequence through his brain. Had they
seen him? It would be very dark against the background of the portieres,
but yet if they were watching--he drew a breath of relief. He had not
been seen. Their voices reached him in low, guarded whispers.